


The Freaks Who Suspect They Could Never Love Anyone

by JuweWright



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Multi, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuweWright/pseuds/JuweWright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's latest flame Amanda is found murdered. Molly has a new boyfriend. John is wondering why Sherlock seems to evolve a kind of caring side. Started off as a drabble-series but has turned into a real story. Rated T for possible swearing/drug use etc. Might have hints to pre-slash but only very faint ones. Written from different POVs (Molly, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, John...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nice Doesn't Do

**Author's Note:**

> Prior to anything else: This was written waaaay before they cast Amanda as Mary, so no, there is absolutely no connection between this Amanda and AA, just to make that clear. I posted this over at FFnet a while ago and now gonna re-upload it here bit by bit to have more people be able to read it.
> 
> This is going to be a longer drabble-like project. Don't know where it will lead but I'm sure it won't lead to any Irene/Sherlock stuff I can guarantee that. I was watching a youtube video about a million times that someone did with Johnlock stuff and that used the song "Save me" from Amy Mann. The title as well as the whole idea came from the lyrics. I think that one of the main appeals of the series is the fact that every single character has its flaws, be it the obvious flaws like Sherlock's being socially awkward or less obvious things like John's PTSD or Molly's issues... well, I love them all for being strange and my drabbles will be based on their strangeness.

"Tea?" John Watson asked when he had taken care of his date's coat and offered her a seat in the living room.

Amanda, dark-haired, small, sweet, a nurse from St Bart's, looked around taking in every detail. There was a skull on the mantelpiece. A skull? A genuine skull in a genuine living room. She had already found the moose with the headphones a bit odd, but the skull added to the overall impression of a very uniquely chaotic bachelor household. She smiled at the small man who was shuffling from side to side. Oh heavens! How long had it been since that man had last dated a woman?

"Tea would be lovely."

When John had vanished into the kitchen, she got up and examined the shelves. The books a person read were always a window to their character. She had read that in one of the magazines she bought regularly to keep up with the best new diets and the newest fashion and the latest star-gossip. In one of these magazines had been pictures of John's flatmate lately: Tall man, strangely angular face, high cheek-bones, a lot of curly dark hair that needed cutting. He had been celebrated for having solved a very difficult case and for being "the hottest detective in London". If that was true, London really had a problem. Knowing that this "brain-man" lived here too, she was not extremely surprised to find "The guide to poisonous flowers" next to "Mummyfying – do it yourself" and "Knifes throughout the centuries" on the shelves. The only surprising thing was that they were sitting next to a very used looking yellow pages and a scrap book full of newspaper articles evolving around crimes that had been committed during the last six years.

This was all the private detective's stuff obviously. It would not have fit John. It was too weird and crazy to match someone like him. When she had first met him, she had thought him to be nothing special and the impression had not changed much. The former army doctor was neither handsome nor rich nor extremely funny or witty. She had dated many more interesting men but as there was nothing better in sight at the moment, she had not refused his offer of drinks and dinner. He was agreeable though a bit shy but he would do as an in-between romance.

Just when she had reached that thought, John returned with a steaming teapot. His smile reminded her of a boy she had dated in school. They had been 13 or 14 years old and the boy had had no experience whatsoever. She sighed silently- This would be a dull evening but it had to do.

A couple of drinks later, he made a move. Amanda had already feared he was one of the guys who did not do it at the first date because they wanted to show they were serious about a relationship. She didn't want this to become anything like a relationship, so she was happy to find the doctor most willing to end up in bed with her. One date with him was clearly enough. He was nice. But nice didn't do. Nice wasn't sexy. Nice didn't smell of adventure but of boredom. Nice was not good enough for her. But nice had been the only thing available as Dr Bradley whom she secretly had sat an eye upon was happily married and – to her astonishment – not interested in betraying his wife.

When she finally lay awake next to a soundly sleeping John, she wondered why she was such a mean person. Taking advantage of a nice guy to spend a semi-good night was not a good thing. But well, she was a siren; she had to sing her song. It was a part of her. She couldn't change it. He had told her a lot of stories. About his time in Afghanistan he had only spoken shortly. Most of his stories were not older than a couple of months and consisted of "Sherlock did this, Sherlock did that, Sherlock and me... you know Sherlock always says..."

At some point this evening she had considered he might be gay. He had proven he was not but the extreme fondness for his detective-friend was still puzzling. When John moved in his sleep and rolled a bit away from her, she took the chance to slip out of the bed and get dressed. A quick glance to the clock on the wall told her she had exactly 10 minutes to catch the night-bus to Hackney. If she made haste she could be home in less than 45 minutes.


	2. Some Call Me A Psychopath, You Know?

Sherlock returned home quite late. He had been busy on a case and then he had had that terrible urge for a cigarette and somehow he had ended up having a row with Mycroft on the phone and finally had texted Irene again although she had not replied to his messages of late. Perhaps he should have accepted that dinner invitation she had never ceased to repeat. She had asked him way often enough to be offended by his not reacting to it.

But he just didn't know how to react to it. He didn't even know what that whole Irene-thing was about. He didn't understand. Well no... he did understand. He always understood. His brain was absolutely capable of doing the maths on this and finding the signs. But then it was one thing to interpret the data when it came to other people's characters and something completely different to figure out your own strange behaviour. For the first time in his life, Sherlock was puzzled by himself.

He entered the hallway and immediately realized someone had been in the flat – someone he didn't know. A smell, cheap vanilla perfume, was lingering in the air. Unless Mrs Hudson had decided to try something completely unsuitable or John had developed a fetish for women's clothes and perfume this indicated the presence of a female. Sherlock looked around and perceived an unfamiliar coat. There were two plates in the sink in the kitchen and two glasses on the table in the living room. He sniffed. Wine, good brand, brand he knew. Brand, John usually watched like his eyeball. Interesting. So: Female, wine, dinner, coat still in the hallway, scent of vanilla. Cheap coat looks like an exclusive designer piece but gives itself away as a fake by bad sewage and too much acrylic in the material mix. She likes to be considered high class, thinks of herself as better society. Not tall, slim, brown long hair, combed her hair after she put the coat on.

Just when Sherlock had reached the conclusion that this woman, whoever she was, would not last long at the side of his friend John, he heard the second step on the stair to the upper floor creak. He knew it was the second step because only the second and seventh step creaked but the seventh usually did so half an octave higher. It creaked not much after the first sound had reached his ear and was accompanied by the very woman he had expected to see. His brain took in manicured fingernails – expensive manicure not "normal people" manicure – high heels – Prada if he was not mistaken, unique, slightly too small, a present from a benefactor – a lot of blinking – probably wears contact lenses, never would admit she does.

"Oh", she said when she finally – how dim witted did you have to be to take more than a second to realize you are not alone in a room? – found that he was standing in the hallway.

"You must be Mr Holmes", she said.

"The very same", he responded crossing his arms in front of his chest. "And you are Amanda."

Her eyes widened. "Where do you know my name from?"

"Friendship bracelet around your wrist: Amanda and Leyla. It was a 50/50 chance but I see I was right."

"Yes, yes, my name is Amanda."

"And your surname?"

"... doesn't matter. Could we just pretend you didn't see me..."

"... sneak out after you got John to make you dinner, get expensive wine out and probably fall in love with you which will result in him being a self conscious mess for at least two weeks? No, I don't think I could pretend I have not met you as I am concerned when it comes to the welfare of my cohabitant. And to me it looks as if you have compromised that welfare quite a bit by using him as your toy tonight."

She looked puzzled.

"How..."

"How do I know you are exactly the kind of woman I despise? It's too obvious to point that out... Just be so good to get out of my flat before I forget the basic rules of human behaviour and remember where I left my hand gun. Some people call me a psychopath, you know?"

She stared at him, suddenly pale.

Oh yes he knew that look but it had been a while since he had last seen it on anyone's face.

"Mr Holmes, please!"

"Out!", he exclaimed.

She almost ran for the door and he closed it with a sigh.


	3. Your Average Best Friend

John knew she was gone before he opened his eyes. He could almost bodily feel the absence of another person in his bed. So she had run off. Great. That happened way too often lately.

"Just because you pick the wrong women", Sherlock said, entering the room with a tray. John could smell porridge and coffee and toast.

"Mrs Hudson told me to bring you this", the detective continued and carefully placed the tray on the bedside table next to the novel John was reading at the moment.

Sherlock looked weary as if he had not slept enough. The "Daily Herald" was stuffed in one of his nightgown's pockets. Probably he had been reading the agony column again. Sherlock was obsessed with the agony column. It fascinated him that there were still people out there who used this way of communication when there were a million other possibilities at hand that were faster and less expensive. John had tried to explain that writing a message in the agony column could be a very romantic thing to do but Sherlock had not understood. Feelings and Sherlock did not work together but then sometimes the detective seemed to be just your average best friend who brought you breakfast after your latest flame had run off in the middle of the night.

"Vanilla perfume", Sherlock looked disgusted.

"Never ever take a woman home again who uses vanilla perfume. The whole house stinks of it."

John grinned although he knew that this had been the exact purpose of Sherlock's exclamation.

"I promise", he said and took a sip of coffee.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and watched him eat. It made John slightly uncomfortable. He always got the feeling Sherlock saw more of him than he knew about himself when he watched him so intensely. It also freaked him out that he always seemed to be the one who was eating whilst Sherlock lived on not much more than air and light... and cases... and nicotine. He had been smoking again. A little bit of the familiar smell got caught in John's nostrils. Still, Sherlock kept watching him minutely.

"What is it?", he snapped and started to butter a slice of toast with more energy than would have been necessary. Sherlock shrugged.

"Just curious."

He stood up and walked over to the window staring out into the misty London morning. His hands unconsciously did his signature gesture, fingertips touching each other.

John thought that Sherlock's eyes were weird. Sometimes they looked green. In neon light they seemed to be blue and now, in the foggy morning light of day they were of a silver-ish grey.

Fascinatiing and special. Just the same as their owner, who now turned around again.

"Have some porridge", he ordered. "Mrs Hudson made it with apples and cinnamon. She said it would be very tasty and sweet."

And suddenly John thought he knew what this weariness was all about. Sherlock was concerned: Concerned, whether Amanda had done anything to hurt his feelings. John frowned. This was new. Sherlock's abilities in empathy were usually very limited not to say non-existent. So to see his friend worried about him was... disturbing. But it also made him happy. Perhaps Sherlock was not as far away from all other people as he believed himself to be.

"She put two spoons on the tray", John said smiling and gesturing at the bowl of porridge. "Wanna share?"


	4. Brown Little Lab Rat

She had seen him for a brief moment in the evening. She still had to think about that short glimpse when she woke up on the sofa in the living room where she had collapsed in the middle of the night intending to have a cup of tea before going to bed. Work had kept her in the morgue until late and what did it matter if she came only home to sleep? There was nobody waiting for her here ever, just the blue sofa and two dozen bookshelves and a messy kitchen with an empty fridge. Perhaps she should get a cat. Yes, a cat would be good. But then buying a cat as a single girl was too close to admitting she had given up hope. It meant that she gave in to becoming one of these crazy old cat lady spinsters… which was probably close to the truth, because he never seemed to even notice her.

He had not seen her that night either, had been too busy shouting abuse into his phone to realize she was standing in the doorway watching. He had been smoking – his first cigarette in more than a month as she well knew – and the gleam had lit up his face from time to time, softening the tough lines, making him look vulnerable despite his anger.

Oh how she had wanted to walk over and talk to him. But what could she have said that was clever enough to gain his interest? What did John Watson say and do that made Sherlock look at him like... a normal person. His human side rarely shone through the facade of know-it-all-Great-Detective but when it shone through it was always because John was there.

Oh how she wanted to tear that mask down, how she wanted to get through to him and hold him and touch this curly black hair and hear his voice whisper her name just once.

But she knew she was not the one, she never would be. It was pathetic even to think of it. Plain Molly, unnoticed brown little lab rat in the corner. What did she have against the only woman she knew he had ever showed any interest in? What did she have against beautiful, clever, all-overwhelming Irene Adler? Nothing! She was nothing! Just a shadow in the corridor, unnoticed and quiet.

She had watched him disappear in the night and then had headed home herself. Sleep had come like a coma after the stressful long day and now she had woken up with a buzzing head and eyelids that seemed to weigh a ton.

She made coffee humming a tune and then sat and ate her diet-yoghurt whilst reading the "Herald". When she had met John for lunch a couple of days ago, he had mentioned that Sherlock always read that newspaper.

"He reads the agony column first.", his words echoed in her head. "It's so weird but he's kind of obsessed with it."

Molly sighed and turned the pages. Why did she have to fall for Sherlock Holmes? Why could she not for once like the plain, normal nice guy? Why could she not fancy John Watson who might have been in her reach if he had ever thought about dating someone in his league who had no intention to break his heart?

In some way they were so similar. Him and her. They both tended to get involved with people that were out of reach. She had seen him chat up Amanda from Bart's lately. He probably had no clue about her reputation. Molly had not warned him because she feared he would want to warn her too concerning his flatmate. She knew that John saw things other people never noticed. He had noticed her unhealthy amount of interest for Sherlock Holmes and he would have seen it as his duty to tell her she didn't stand a chance. As if she didn't know. As if she didn't wish she could just decide to stop her heart from beating faster every time she saw him. As if she didn't wish to be in control of her own feelings. With a sigh she sat down her teacup and began to read the agony column.


	5. As Human As Anyone

"Don't say anything", Lestrade held up his hand to stop Donovan from bursting out with the latest news immediately when he entered the office. It was one of these things Lestrade hated, being talked to when he had not really arrived at a place. He took his coat off and threw it over his chair. His secretary came in and handed him a mug of coffee. That was better. Much better. He leaned against his work table and looked up.

"Now speak!"

Sergeant Donovan frowned for a second, then decided the news were more important than her hurt self-esteem and exclaimed.

"We've got a dead body down at the riverside, in Lambeth."  
"Ah", Lestrade sipped his coffee. "And?"

"Anderson's already on his way. I said I'd wait for you and bring you round."

Lestrade almost dropped his mug.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, Anderson..."

"Who the hell did tell Anderson to go to a crime scene on his own without my permission?"

"We just thought..."

"Oh, Donovan, stop thinking! Both of you. No good will ever come from it!"

He put his coat back on and almost pushed her out of the office. "Quick, quick, we've got to be there before he destroys any valuable clue."

While he was rushing down the stairs he already pulled his mobile phone out and scrolled through the phone book. Baker street was closer to Lambeth. And Sherlock would love a chance to bully Anderson.

"Sherlock? Get out to Lambeth immediately. We've got a dead body and Anderson is there on his own, so I would be very happy if you could... yes exactly. Thank you very much. See you there."

Donovan turned around, the expression on her face reproachful as ever.

"You should not call that psychopath all the time. One day you'll..."

"Donovan?"

"Aye?"

"Shut up and don't say a word until we have reached the crime scene. I won't have the Sherlock discussion again. We've had that about a hundred times already. I'm sick of it."

Donovan closed her mouth and went to the car in sulking silence.

They got stuck in a traffic jam and so it took ages to get to the Thames but finally they had reached the crime scene and Lestrade saw Sherlock and John Watson standing next to a body that was just being wrapped in for the transportation to the mortuary.

Lestrade could not help but smile. It was so unusual. Sherlock had always been the loner, someone who didn't need other people in his life, someone who did not relate to any human feeling and was unable to empathize. In general, the consulting detective had not changed in his behaviour. He was still as strange as ever, he still got that gleaming look when a case had to be solved, when "the game was on" as he called it. But lately, Lestrade had discovered different things that made him think Sherlock was not so far from a normal human being as everyone believed. For one, there was his behaviour towards Mrs Hudson, which was extremely affectionate. She cared for Sherlock as if he was her son and it seemed like he saw much more in her than just his landlady and – "not" – housekeeper. Even stranger than the Mrs Hudson thing was the John Watson thing though. When that little man had shown up at a crime scene for the first time and Sherlock had said nothing but "He's with me", Lestrade had taken it for a joke.

But since the very day that John Watson had moved in with Sherlock Holmes he had been a constant sight at crime scenes, investigations and "solved case"-parties. Sherlock asked that guy for his thoughts, he discussed his theories with him and he even – although he was probably not aware of that himself – cared for him. John had found a way to melt the ice that usually surrounded Sherlock's soul. With him, the detective was as human as anyone else. What was it about that average-looking ex-soldier that could make Sherlock Holmes open up?

Even now they were sharing one of these glances that Lestrade often perceived when they were together and thought nobody was watching. It was as if their eyes linked together and a stream of thoughts crossed between them. It was such an intimate thing, it seemed so personal, that Lestrade almost felt he should look another way.

"Ah, Lestrad." Sherlock had noticed him and waved. Was that a smile around his mouth? Oh heavens, they had a serial killer who worshipped satan and did terrible things to the bodies of his victims but left no fingerprints or footprints. That was the only thing that would make Sherlock smile.

"So, what do we have?", asked Lestrade, preparing for the worst.

One of Anderson's people who had just been on the verge of taking the body away, stopped and opened the zipper again so the inspector could have a look.

"Drowned", said Sherlock.

"What?"

Lestrade was still staring at the peaceful face of the young man in front of him.

"Drowned", repeated Sherlock and put his hands in his pockets. "Last night, John sais can't be dead more than 10 hours. Highly intoxicated with an interesting mixture of LSD and alcohol. Doing the equation of how fast the water is running down the Thames, the tide and the hour... fell in at Wandsworth bridge. Didn't struggle too much against the water because he was too drunk for that. Bad story for his family, bad story for me because there is no case. Call me as soon as you've got one."

With these words, Sherlock turned around, John following him closely. Lestrade stared. Sherlock looked over his shoulder again.

"Ah... and before I forget. Tell Molly to go home early today, will you? I saw her last night. Looked like she didn't sleep much for days. Does horrible things to her teint and posture."

Lestrade nodded automatically and watched the men disappear.

"What the hell was that?", asked Sergeant Donovan who had come over.

"No crime", said Lestrade.

"I got that bit. I'm not completely stupid. I was talking about that last bit, the bit about Molly from mortuary..."

Lestrade looked her straight into the eyes.

"That", he said, "was an extraordinary moment of Sherlock caring about anyone but Dr John Watson. We should make a note in the calendar for that because I am quite sure it will not happen again so soon."


	6. Family

Mrs Hudson had just poured the hot water into the teapot when she heard the door opening. With a smile she huddled out into the hallway to greet her two tenants and see whether she could do anything for them. Yes, she always insisted upon the fact that she was not their housekeeper, but providing a tray of cookies and some tea to the polite John Watson and Sherlock, who always looked like he had not eaten for days, was not really housekeeping. Housekeeping would have been cleaning the kitchen – she would never do that, something might explode. Housekeeping would have been tidying the living room – not happening, Sherlock always said that there was a system in his mess and would get angry and nobody wanted to make Sherlock angry.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson", Sherlock greeted her whilst taking his scarf of with a single motion of his right hand. He leaned over to give her a short kiss on the cheek. He did that more often nowadays. Since John had moved in actually. The doctor did him good, balanced him. It was so nice to see him smiling more often these days. And even though she still did not really know whether these two were a couple, she was sure their relationship must be more than a simple friendship.

"Morning Mrs Hudson", said John with a wide grin. He had not taken to the habit of his friend of greeting her with a kiss, but usually gave her a warm hug.

"Boys, you seem so content. What is the matter? I get you had to investigate a crime?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Drunkard fell off the bridge. Nobody pushed him. Was just an idiot."

She could not help but be astonished. Normally, Sherlock would have been horribly annoyed if he had been called out for nothing but an accident. John seemed to notice her surprise and explained whilst getting rid of his jacket:

"Inspector Lestrade wanted us to keep Anderson from messing the place up. Sherlock had a blast showing that man in every way what an idiot he was. Actually, Sherlock, he could sue you for verbal abuse."  
"The scanning machine in the supermarket could sue you for verbal abuse, too", replied Sherlock walking past Mrs Hudson without even asking whether he was allowed into her flat. "Tea?", she heard his voice from inside.

She exchanged a glance with John who just shrugged apologetically and they went in together. Sherlock was already sitting on the sofa and John took the place next to him. They always sat next to each other on her sofa. She had never seen them sitting on different chairs. Creatures of habit. Both of them. Perhaps that was the reason why they got along so well. In everyday life, they had their routines and usually didn't stray from them.

"Tea and cake", she said and got Sherlock's favourite mug and John's cup from the shelf.

"Sounds good", said John.

"But you know, I'm not..."

"... not our housekeeper but our wonderful landlady who wants to hear a bit more about the drunk man on the bridge and wants to share the gossip about Mrs Vegas' new lover", finished Sherlock.

She placed the mug with the steaming content in front of him.

"I won't even ask how you got the part about Mrs Vegas", she said and went back to the kitchen to get her own cup and John's tea. John didn't take sugar or milk. Sherlock took loads of sugar but no milk. She herself was an only-milk person. It was essential to always know how a person liked their tea.

"Ah, I saw you were out because your coat hung at the wardrobe differently when we went to go and annoy Anderson. You could not have been far away because you were back about an hour ago and made this cake, may I have another slice by the way, it's amazing."

She smiled and rushed off to get another piece of cake for Sherlock. One had to feed him whilst he was eating. You never knew when he would stop the intake of calories for a lengthy period of time and she had to provide he didn't starve himself to death one day.

"So, you could only have visited Mr Jones or Mrs Vegas. Mr Jones is on holiday as you mentioned the day before yesterday. Leaves us with Mrs Vegas. You came back with a bit of her scent in your clothes. She uses a lot of perfume anyways but she has used more which could still not completely eliminate a faint bit of men's deodorant. As Mrs Vegas doesn't have a son or any other male acquaintance that would stay overnight and use a deodorant in her house, the only right solution is that she has a new lover. You'll have to provide the details though I'm afraid, Mrs Hudson, because I can't deduce a man's age and situation in life from his deodorant alone."

Mrs Hudson grinned. That was her Sherlock. She had always been impressed by his way of observing small things and turning them into the complete story. His mind was extraordinary. He was a genius; she had found that out very early. But he was one of these people who were supposed to be lonely their whole life just because they were too brilliant to fit in with society. She had been so happy to see him find a friend in John. At first she had thought the doctor would be taken aback by Sherlock's behaviour and would leave him alone again. She had been afraid of that, because she had seen Sherlock opening up to the army doctor in a way she had thought was completely impossible before. If John would have left, he would have broken Sherlock's heart – which she was absolutely sure existed although the detective never got tired of denying it. But John had proved he could cope with anything – even with disgusting things in the fridge.

She watched the guys while they ate her cake and smiled. It was nice to see them both so happy. And there had not even been a murder or anything. They were just genuinely happy to have bullied that Anderson person. Like schoolboys would be. They were a bit like that. Schoolboys, boys in general. They seldom behaved like grown-ups. Sherlock never did that and when John tried to be an adult it always ended with a mess.

"So, what about Molly. You said you saw her last night", the army doctor said turning towards Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of tea.

"Yap. Saw her last night. I was having a row with Mycroft on the phone and a ci... and she was standing there and watching and thought I didn't see. Must have been working late. Looked knackered."  
Mrs Hudson frowned.

"Sherlock, did you just say you were smoking? Last night? And fighting with your brother again? You should not always fight with each other. You don't have any other family."

Sherlock looked from her to John to his piece of cake and back to her and John again, his glance lingering on John for a long while. And Mrs Hudson understood what this glance meant without needing deduction skills or an amazing highly functional brain.

The thing that this glance said with complete certainty was: I have family. I have you. I have John.


	7. Taste In Music

Molly almost dropped the eppendorf tube she was holding. Why did he always have to appear out of thin air? He was not the slightest bit like Sherlock. Sherlock always made a hell of a lot of noise when he came into the mortuary. That new guy from IT... she didn't even know his name, wasn't sure he had ever told her what it was. He was kind of creepy - And that coming from a girl who fancied Sherlock Holmes the sociopath. His Shirt had a name-tag on it, so people knew whom they had to yell at when their devices still did not work after he had installed new things on them. Sean.

He smiled when he noticed her.

"Sorry, love. I thought nobody was in. It's lunchtime."

"Oh is it?"

Molly always forgot to eat when she was in the middle of an investigation and this body had just come in at 11 am. It had looked interesting enough and it had proven to be exactly that. Better than the body Lestrade had brought in, that drunkard boy who had drowned himself. Brilliant! Could it get any more boring? Next please!

Sean licked his lips and the picture of a lizard came into her mind. He had taken Jim's Place in the team. That was as much as she knew. People didn't talk about the whole Jim-thing much, because they thought she would not be able to cope. She was perfectly able to cope. But she still disliked this new guy.

"So what's up with the computer?", asked Sean. "They told me you had issues."

She waved over to one of the machines.

"Isn't working right. I get failure-alerts all the time and it just shuts down in the middle of processing the data. It can annoy the hell out of you if you have to run the fingerprint programme thrice just to get to the end."  
Sean nodded went over, switched the computer on and started typing. White letters on black ground. He was trained, more of the fitness-studio-type than the running-in-the-forest-type, rather stout. His shirt was really tight around his upper arms and shoulders. His hair was cropped short, very short, too short for Molly's taste but then Molly's taste at the moment was black curls that almost nobody in his right senses could pull off. He hummed while he worked and Molly noticed one of her favourite songs. She went over to the fridge and got her enzymes out, then started pipetting the four mixtures for DNA analysis.

Jim had stopped humming and was now singing very, very quietly.

"Spin me round just to pin me down on the cover of this strange bed..."

Molly looked up.

"Do you like Mumford and Sons?", she asked.

Sean seemed to be surprised.

"Oh, did I actually sing that loud? Sorry for that. I know I tend to do that and it freaks people out."  
"No, no, don't apologize. It was in tune and everything I just..."

I just would not have expected someone as unsympathetic as you to have any taste in music, she thought. But then, was he really that unsympathetic. He had never said anything bad to her, he had always been polite. Why should she not like him?

"I like them quite a bit to answer your question - went to see them live once."

She had finished her preparation, clicked the lids of the tubes shut and put them into the incubator. Perhaps Sean wasn't such an idiot at all.

"Okay, found the bug", the IT guy said, nodded and typed away quickly. Molly went back to her body and had another look at her. She should really call John Watson. Or better...

She scrolled through the register of her phone and dialled a number. It didn't even take 10 seconds for someone to pick up. Obviously someone was bored to death.

"Molly!"

"Sherlock... umm..."

She saw Sean looking up. A look of - what, jealousy? - in his eyes.

"What is it?"

"I got a body from Gregson this morning. About an hour after Lestrade left that drowned guy here."

"A body?"

"A familiar body."

"Oh for God's sake, spit it out, will you?"

He was his charming self. Why did she fancy someone who was permanently rude?

"Sherlock, I think this was not a natural death. It looks every bit like it though. I can't find anything that would make you think of a struggle or poison or... I don't know what. It's more of a feeling..."

"I would always trust your feelings, Molly", the voice of the detective was low and calm. Okay, so this was why she fancied someone who was almost permanently rude, because he could be so... astonishingly nice at times. Molly wanted to creep into that mobile phone just to be closer to that voice. Molly wanted to throw that mobile phone out of the window to rid herself of him forever.

"Could you... come round later and have a look?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure we could come round."

"We being you and John Watson?", she enquired.

"He's my blogger. He needs to come. He needs to write stuff down."  
She sighed.

"Sherlock, I know he's your blogger and he comes with you everywhere you go but I don't think he should come here today..."

"Why?"

"Because", she took a deep breath, "because the dead body I have on my table is Amanda from St Barth's"

Silence.

Then: "Oh."

"So you know about her and John?"

"Accidentally, yes."

"So will you come alone?"

"I will be there in an hour. Need to check something first."

"Okay. No worries."  
She hung up. Sean was still watching her.

"Your boyfriend?", he asked and tried to sound casual, look casual. But he was tapping his fingers on the desk. Sign of nervousness. He was nervous because of her?

She shook her head.

"A colleague... sort of."

"Ah", he nodded and made his way to the door then hesitated.

"I was wondering...", he said wringing his hands, "would you like to – umm - have coffee with me?"

Molly looked at him. She still didn't think he was handsome. She still didn't like him much. But he was here, in her reach. And he had asked her for coffee not in the Sherlock-way of "I'll be upstairs, get me a cup of coffee and a box of nicotine patches!" but he wanted to invite her, sit in a cafe with her, talk, get to know her.

She blushed.  
"Yes, I think I would like that", she said and sat the timer for the DNA-digest to 55 minutes.


	8. A Lot Not Good

Sherlock arrived at the mortuary five minutes late. He had been to Amanda's place and it had taken more time than he had thought but then he had not considered the hysterics of a best friend and the whole matter of having to comfort that foreign girl. His purple shirt was still wet from her tears. It had been terribly disturbing.

His head felt heavy. All the impressions the day had left. He couldn't filter things out. It was a gift and a curse at the same time. It made him observe things nobody else seemed to notice, it made his brain a useful tool. But it also made his senses hurt from too much information at times. Especially when there was no case to solve, nothing to concentrate his powers on, they just went mad. There had been times, not too long ago, when he had not been able to cope and done what had to be done to blur his vision. John had a faint idea that he had done drugs but Sherlock didn't even want to imagine what would happen if the doctor ever found out the dimensions of his habit. He didn't want to know what would happen if his friend ever got to know that he still craved for drugs from time to time and only resisted the temptation because he, John, was there to distract him.

But just now no John was at his side and he was in a hospital. There were so many things close at hand, things that would make it all easier for a couple of hours.

"What the hell are you doing with your head in that cupboard?"

Molly. Short, brown haired Molly, plain as ever, though she seemed to have a bit of colour in her cheeks and a certain sparkle in her eyes... looked like guilt... but why guilt?

"I... umm... I..."

"Sherlock, whatever it is that you just hid in your jacket pocket, I want you to put it back. I don't need to see what it is, I will turn around. But I will know what you took, if you don't do what I say. I know exactly what is in that cupboard."

Sometimes she was astonishing. He had never noticed her much. She had just been another human, another stupid person in a world full of stupid people. But then, she knew a lot of stuff about chemistry. She actually understood the rants he could have over a probe under a microscope. And she liked him. For some reason he could not put his finger on. He didn't think he was likeable but then being nice and such were things that he had never been interested in before John had appeared in his life.

She turned on the spot and stood there. Faint smell of coffee. She had been out for coffee, with someone who used steroids. There was a distinct smell of his sweat on her shirt.

He put the morphine back into the cupboard and closed the door.

"Getting yourself into trouble again?", he asked casually. What the hell was he asking this for? It wasn't his business whom she dated and why. But then she had dated "Jim from IT" who had turned out to be the most dangerous man on this planet, so it was probably good to ask. Although... did that mean he cared for her? Why should he care for Molly? Perhaps he should better take that morphine...

"Sherlock, don't open that cupboard again! Come over here. I've got something better for you. This smells like a case, a difficult one too, because I have run all the tests and still could not detect any poison that would do the job that neatly. It was believed she died of a stroke or heart attack but she neither has an aneurism nor is her heart scarred in any way. I kept her clothes safe. They are on that chair. Sorry that I already did my job and cut her open but it was just not a murder case when they sent her in here. We're lucky she even got sent here because normally they would not do that if it's just a stroke. Gregson thought it was unlikely she died in the normal way because he said she had...", she hesitated and blushed.

"Had what?", asked Sherlock filing through the pile of clothes, recognizing the cloak she had been wearing when he threw her out of the house.

"Quoting Gregson: 'the constitution of a horse'. He seemed to know that first hand."

"Well she must've been ridden by pretty much everyone in London", replied Sherlock. He had found a small diary and was filing through it. There were loads of appointments in it and half of the names were men of some rank. Sometimes it was good to know who the current Prime Minister was. Good heavens! There was enough material in this book to blackmail the whole parliament (both houses), half of the finance market and the royal family. He held it out to Molly.

"Look at that, I'll really have to tell John to get a check-up for STDs. This is disgusting."

Why was she blushing again? This was awkward. He didn't understand that girl. Except... he noticed some minor things that had escaped his eye before. Skirt not straight, blouse ruffled, hair looks a bit messy, lips are redder than usual but no lipstick applied... oh for God's sake she had not really...

In this moment the door to the mortuary was opened. Sherlock did not even need to use his brain for a split second to know this was Molly's new guy. Did they all have to work in IT? Well at least this one wasn't obviously gay or un-obviously dangerous. He was just extremely stupid. Oh Molly, can't you get yourself some guy who doesn't lower the IQ of the whole building to Anderson-level?

But why did he even bother whom she was dating?

"Oh", Molly said and blushed – her never-ending amount of blushing. She definitely had more blood-vessels in her face than any other person Sherlock knew.

"Hi", said the guy looking from Molly to Sherlock and back.

Molly decided she should introduce them to each other.

"So, Sherlock, this is..."

"... Sean, obviously", said Sherlock with a glance at the name-tag on the IT-guy's shirt. "Sean from IT who is not happy about seeing me here because he wanted to ask you, dear Molly, whether you wanted to go see a movie at the cinema tonight. She would love to come, Sean. So now you'll have to survive 90 minutes of romantic Hollywood-bullshit although judging from the state of things you won't see much of the movie at all. Have fun with it. And now I would be infinitely thankful if you'd leave us alone so Molly can tell me all about that dead woman down there."

He pushed Sean out of the mortuary and closed the door. Molly stared at him.

"What?", he asked. A little voice that sounded very much like John was shouting at the back of his head: "Not good! A lot not good."

"That was dreadful", said Molly. "Why did you do that?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"John tends to tell me I am an idiot if it comes to human interaction."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest and made a grim face.

"Okay, Sherlock, you're an idiot. Now come here, I'll show you what I found - or rather what I didn't find. We'll have to hurry up a bit though. I've got a date tonight and I need to change clothes and dress up and put make-up on and stuff before I go there."

Sherlock stared at her.

"But it is a cinema", he said sheepishly. "It's dark."


	9. Nuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at the fact that we are slowly approaching the chapter I had most fun writing (chapter 10), I really hope you like the story.

John had just returned home from his daily work at the clinic when his mobile phone rang. He frowned. Sherlock never called him. The detective preferred to text... to text a lot actually. But well, this time, he seemed to have thought calling was a good idea which was usually a bad sign.

"Sherlock? What's happening?"

"Umm...", Sherlock was hesitating. The punch-line champion was hesitating. What the hell had happened?

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"  
"Pretty much so. Would you mind coming round to Hyde Park?"

John sighed.

"Now?"  
"Well yes, now."  
"Can I eat first?"

A smell that told of really yummy veggies potatoes and probably some ham had been hanging in the air when he had entered the flat. Mrs Hudson was an angel. And she would be disappointed if she didn't get the chance to feed him.

"Do you need to?"

This was extraordinary. Sherlock usually never asked questions like that. Something must have happened.

"Well... I didn't eat anything since breakfast so I guess that calorie-uptake is necessary, yes."

"How long will eating take?"

Okay, that sounded a bit more like the Sherlock he knew.  
"Well... 30 minutes? 45?"

"30 minutes. I expect you at the Peter Pan statue in an hour."

John checked his watch. It was almost six sharp. So seven at Peter Pan. Oddly enough that they should meet at the never grown-up boy's statue. John had always thought Sherlock was a lot like Peter, in a very different yet very similar way. Sherlock could not count as a grown-up man in so many things. Autism, he had always made fun of the fact that his flatmate resembled someone with Asperger's syndrome, but it had only taken him a couple of weeks to find out that Sherlock was not autistic in any way. He lacked a lot of social skills not because he was unable to have them but because he had never acquired them. He needed help to adapt but he could adapt. Hell, he had even fancied Irene. Of course Sherlock was in complete denial of the latter, but John had seen and heard enough to know what had been going on with his friend.

"Okay, I'll be there."  
"Don't miss the tube."

"See you later."

John hung up and went down to Mrs Hudson's rooms.

"Aaaah, there you are!"

The landlady smiled broadly.

"You look tired today."

"I am knackered", John admitted. "It's been a horrible day. They don't have a name for it yet but there's a new influenza virus spreading like a pandemic. I don't think it's general influenza, because so many people end up in hospital with it. It might be some new bird-flu variety."

"Just don't let yourself be infected with that stuff", said Mrs Hudson. "We need you here."

She seemed to stop for a second, considering what she had just said, then shrugged and went to get him a plate full of food.

"Here you are, sit down. Want some squash with that? They had a new sort at Morrison's. It's apple and cranberry flavoured. Don't know what it tastes like but I thought it sounded okay and it was just one fifty for three pints."

John let her pour some of the thick reddish liquid in his glass and added water until it had a funny pinkish colour.

"We need you here"

Her words still echoed in his mind. She had not said "I need you here" or "Sherlock needs you here", she had deliberately used the term "we" which was peculiar because she usually only referred to him being important for Sherlock's well-being. But John realized now more than ever that she had said something very true. The three of them, the inhabitants of 221B had become much more than three individuals ... or two flatmates and one individual ... they had grown to like each other, they liked when the other two were around. John could not imagine living without Sherlock any more but he also could not imagine living without Mrs Hudson.

They ate together and Mrs Hudson chatted away about the neighbours and her cousin and Sherlock having made a mess in her kitchen (John had told him to do a very horrible-smelling experiment somewhere else assuming the detective would take refuge in Molly's lab but not considering his friend's laziness that would lead him to finish it at the nearest possible place which unavoidably had the landlady's quarters).

Finally, he got up and put on his jacket.

"Oh, you're going out?"

Mrs Hudson seemed interested.

"Meeting that girl again... what was her name?"

"Lizzy", said John remembering that Mrs Hudson had never met Amanda but had had a brief chat with the girl before his latest acquaintance. "No, not really. I'm actually going to meet Sherlock in Hyde Park."

Mrs Hudson smiled.

"That's a good boy. He's really fond of you, you know. He never let anyone help him with his investigations before. Wanna take some nuts?"  
John stared at her with a blank look.

"Sorry. What?"

She went over to the cupboard and held out a half-empty bag of hazelnuts to him.

"To feed the squirrels in the park. I often see couples do that."

John was too busy staring at the nuts in surprise to protest against her calling him and Sherlock a couple. He muttered some sort of thanks and was gone.


	10. L'Amour T'Attend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I promised you this was the most fun to write chapter... I hope it's as much fun to read :-)

"John, I want you to go and check whether you have an STD."  
Sherlock was standing with his back towards the path looking at the Peter Pan statue. John wondered how long he had been standing there. A couple on one of the benches nearby gave him a look that said as much as: "Oh my, you know that weirdo?"

So Sherlock might have been standing there for a long time. Now he turned around and grinned.

"I expected me to ask me why you should do that."  
"Well, actually I was wondering about that but did not want to discuss this in public."  
"Ah", Sherlock glanced at the couple. "Okay, let's walk."

That was pretty strange again.

Sherlock did not respect anyone's privacy. That was not how his brain worked.

They walked down the path. A cool breeze was blowing and made Sherlock's coat shift slightly.

"So, why do you want me to take that test?", asked John, knowing he had to ask because Sherlock expected him to and something about this question would lead to more information in the current case.

"Because your dearest Amanda slept with half of the male London population. Most of these guys can actually afford to have affairs so you might be endangered of having caught a tripper from her."

John coughed and swallowed.

"What are you saying with this? I don't get girls because I don't have money."  
"Well pretty much so, John. Girls want diamonds and fancy restaurants and pretty dresses and all that and you just can't afford it. You can't even afford the grocery shopping at times."

John sighed. This was Sherlock at his best again. Not that the observation was wrong, it was just not very polite. But then... Sherlock and polite did not go together anyways.

"Okay, so why else are we here? Except for the fact that you're worried about my health?", he asked and did some quick steps to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

Sherlock grinned.

"Because the game is on. I found a lot of names in that diary and some of them... well let's say they would be quite unhappy to have their secret revealed. One of them works close by and I thought we'd pay him a visit. Amanda might have played with the fire and lost. Why are there nuts in your pocket?"

John stared.

"What?"

"There are nuts in your pocket. I can smell them. Why do you have nuts in your pocket? It's a simple question. It's not your habit to carry nuts around, so this is something unusual."  
"Mrs Hudson gave them to me."

"Why?"  
"To feed the squirrels."

Sherlock stopped mid-stride and turned on the spot to face the doctor.

"Why would anyone do something so stupid? They're grey squirrels, the imported plague that took the biological niche from the red squirrels and now multiplies like rabbits and takes over so that the red squirrel will soon be extinct in Britain. Why would anyone feed these parasites?"

John shrugged.

"It's a romantic thing."

Sherlock looked at him and frowned.

"Really?"  
"Yeah, people do it when they're in love. I don't know why exactly but it's quite common."  
Sherlock nodded. John saw he was still thinking when he started walking again and exactly, after a few steps the detective stopped again.

"And Mrs Hudson gave you nuts to feed the squirrels?"

"Yes."  
"Did she know you were going to meet me?"

"Yes."  
"Well this is kind of odd", stated Sherlock and walked on, leaving John to rush after him.

They went along the Long Water and past the Queen's Temple to the Albert Memorial. When Sherlock left the park through the next gate, John suddenly had an idea where they were headed.

"So, whom exactly do we want to visit?", he asked.

"Jeremy Wool", answered Sherlock courtly. "He's not going to be too happy about our showing up I guess. I hope you brought your gun."

John bit his lip. He had not brought his gun. He had left it lying on his bed. Stupid. He should have known that Sherlock would get them into trouble. Confronting the Manager of the Royal Albert Hall counted as getting them into trouble almost as much as deciphering the code on Irene Adler's phone.

"Oh yeah, sure", he said patting his jacket as if the revolver was in there somewhere.

Well in case things got bad he still had other ways to cope. He still knew how to fight and could badly injure someone with his bare hands. The only problem was that you could not do much with your bare hands when the other side had weapons.

Sherlock walked up the front stairs of the hall as if he owned the place. The main door was closed, so he came back down again and made his way around the building until a small side-entrance appeared. A side-entrance with a "no entry" sign on it which Sherlock bluntly ignored.

"Hm, this is not quite as nice as the main hall", said the detective looking around before he randomly chose to walk down the dark aisle on the left hand side.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it, John?"

"I just have a bad feeling about being in here without permission. Do you think there really is no other way..."

Sherlock shook his head.  
"If you announce your coming, people will be prepared. I want to have a look around and find unprepared things and hear unprepared sentences and afterwards we will go outside again and will come back tonight. I've got tickets for the opera and appointment with one of the sub-Managers afterwards. She thinks I am interested in becoming a member of the council. Oh... by the way, they're staging "Carmen" tonight. I hope you like Bizet."

And he started to hum one of the tunes from the famous opera, making edgy movements with his arms.

"Allons! en garde! Allons! Allons! ah!  
Toreador, en garde! Toreador, Toreador!  
Et songe bien, oui, songe en combattant  
Qu'un oeil noir te regarde,  
Et que l'amour t'attend,  
Toreador, L'amour t'attend!"


	11. It's All Right

When Mrs Hudson opened the door, she almost fainted. Any other landlord would have done so without hesitation but the old lady had become used to a lot of things. Sherlock and John entering the house looking like they had just taken part in some dirty Irish street fighting was something new but not too unexpected. So she decided not to faint but to do her job as a second mum to these two guys.

"Oh Lord, what happened to you two? Please don't tell me you had a row with each other. Jesus, Sherlock, is that your blood? The mess! Take that shirt off, now. If you leave this to dry it will leave a stain. And John, you look like… oh come on in, I have some ice-packs in the freezer. That is, if Sherlock did not put them out again to store something hideous instead."

She pushed John into her flat. He did not make much of an attempt to get away. The former army doctor looked completely battered. There was a bruise on his right cheek and his right eye was already turning black.

"What the hell have you been up to? I thought you were taking a stroll in the park."

Sherlock came in too and stood there leaning in the doorway. He had a strange look on his face that Mrs Hudson had never seen before. Guilt? Guilt because he had gotten into trouble and now his flatmate was hurt? Mrs Hudson could not help but smile to herself. The doctor was doing some good there.

"Well, we took a stroll in the park, went into the Royal Albert Hall and had a good conversation with two of the security guys", explained John whilst the landlady was rummaging through her freezer, pulling out a plastic bag with a dead rabbit, a Tupperware-box with a cut-off hand in it and a box of chocolate ice cream before she finally found the cool-packs.

Sherlock seemed to notice there was more information required and filled the old lady in about the case. At one point he paused with a long glance at John but she could not make out the reason for that. All in all it seemed that he had a case, a dead woman who had had affairs with various influential people one of them being the manager of the Hall. He and John had been able to find some proof for possible blackmail – an envelope with some very naked pictures in it which had been hidden in one of the drawers of Wool's desk – but then had been found by the security guards and as none of them wanted to give their ID, they had seen the necessity to fight their way out.

"And we were kind of lucky none of the idiots remembered they had truncheons otherwise we'd look a lot worse. Can I have some of that ice too? I got some nasty hit on the back of my head."

Mrs Hudson threw one of the packs over and Sherlock caught it without difficulty.

"Ouch", said John when she placed the pack on his brow.

"Ouch indeed", commented Sherlock. "If our doctor had not forgot his revolver, we would still look presentable tonight."

"Tonight?", asked Mrs Hudson.

"You're not really planning on still going to the opera, are you?", enquired John with a look of surprise.

"Course I do. I'm on a scent. Amanda definitely blackmailed Mr Wool. We'll just have to prove that he was the one who killed her."

Mrs Hudson sighed.

"Will you stay out of further trouble tonight, please? My nerves can't take any more of this for today."  
Sherlock nodded.

"We're just going to watch `Carmen` and have a chat with Miss Francis afterwards. She might be able to provide vital information about the case."

A couple of hours later they were on their way. John had checked his looks in the mirror. The bruise would become worse but up to now it was just a bit of a reddish glow on one cheek and a bit of a swelling above the eye which could almost pass unnoticed.

Sherlock had called a taxi and had come out of his room just when the driver rang the front door bell. John had watched the detective hasten down the stairs shouting that he should hurry up. Sherlock always wore a suit and decent shirts. So John had not really expected him to look any different when he went to the opera than he did in everyday life.

But oh how wrong he had been. Sherlock had put on the purple shirt – John wondered where the hell the detective got that from in the first place, probably Sherlock was the only man in the world who could pull that shirt off – and was wearing a new suit. The trousers were tighter than the ones he usually wore and the jacket… no it was not even a jacket, but an old fashioned dress coat. Underneath he was wearing a vest and said shirt. In John's eyes Sherlock looked every inch a Victorian gentleman. That is if you ignored the hair which was as ruffled and curly as ever.

"Ah, there you are", said the detective beaming when John got into the cab.

"Nice dress coat, Sherlock."

"Do you think so? I think it's a bit odd with the tail-things on it. I feel like some sort of bird."

A black raven, thought John. An outlandish, black raven.

"What was that?"

John bit his lip and hoped he had not spoken the words out loud enough for Sherlock to get their meaning.

"Nothing, really."  
"You don't look too bad either by the way. Didn't know you owned a black suit."  
"Mrs Hudson's ex-husband did."  
"Ah, okay."

"She did some alterations so it would fit me."  
"She did a good job although I'd have liked the red shirt better."  
"Mrs Hudson insisted on plain white. She said that nobody wears a red shirt in the Royal Albert Hall."  
Sherlock grinned.

"Wondering whether she would be extremely shocked to hear I saw people wearing jeans the last time I went there."  
John laughed.

Sherlock had reserved seats in one of the boxes. Of course. The great detective did not sit on a normal chair on the balcony or somewhere down in the stalls, he had box-seats. The box was empty except for the two of them and an elderly couple who was reading the program together and did not take any notice of the two men.

"Ever seen 'Carmen' before?", asked Sherlock leaning back in his seat and stretching his legs.

"Not really, no."

John had not been an opera-guy in his old life. He had been a watch-rugby-on-telly-and-have-a-beer-guy. Opera-guys usually earned twice as much as he did or had been raised in a different environment. Again he wondered where Sherlock came from and what kind of education and childhood he had had. Sherlock never answered to his questions on that topic.

"Okay. So, you will see a very silly story with some good music. We're in Spain. Mostly in Sevilla actually. There's a guy, Don José, who is supposed to marry a nice girl. But he falls for a gipsy-woman called Carmen. They run off together. But Carmen is not loyal and hooks up with a torero next. And then there's a lot of mischief just because of a woman. We can learn from that."  
"Can we?"

"Yes. Don't start a relationship with a woman and you will be fine."  
"You sound like Mycroft."

"What? Never."  
"You do."  
"Was not my intention."  
John hesitated for a moment before he looked up again and fixated Sherlock's green eyes with his.

"What exactly happened? Who taught you that caring and loving people is something bad? I mean I know you don't understand a lot of this and this is one part of the reason why you are so…"

"… sociopathic?"

"That was not the word I was looking for."

"Psychopathic, then?"

"I am not Anderson, I know you're not a Psychopath. And you're not answering my question. There must be a reason why Mycroft and you are both inclined to believe that any kind of empathy is a bad thing and should be repressed."  
Silence. The bell rang to announce the show would be starting soon.

Silence. The bell rang the second time.

Silence. The couple at the back put the program away just when the bell rang for the third time and the lights were dimmed.

Suddenly John felt Sherlocks hand on his.

"I'm going to tell you, John", he said quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper. "I have never told anyone, but I trust you. I can tell you, if you really want to know. Someday. Not today. Not here. I am sorry."

John nodded. The theatre had become completely silent. The audience was waiting.

"It's all right", he whispered.

For another second John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin on his, felt the fingertips brushing over his knuckles, then the detective pulled his hand away, the music started and the moment was gone.


	12. A Weak Spot

John had never been at the opera before. And after the first two arias he was already wondering why. He had thought that opera was something complex and difficult but the story was easy to follow even if you did not understand the language (and it would have been easy to follow still if they had not had a screen next to the stage that was showing the lyrics in the English translation). The woman who played Carmen had an amazing voice and he really liked the old fashioned way they had done the costumes and the stage setup.

When the curtain fell for the interval he blinked and sat motionless, still impressed by what he had experienced. Suddenly he heard a chuckle and looked up to see Sherlock smile at him.

"Happy you like it", he said. "Let's go out and watch people and get something to drink."

They walked out and John was glad Sherlock had insisted on not sitting through the interval because he felt stiff and it took about half the way down the staircase to not move funnily any more.

Sherlock of course did not show any signs of fatigue but more or less jumped down the stairs in front of him. John noticed a few young women with champagne glasses in their hands that watched his friend pass by and broke into a giggle right after he had passed.

He had to admit that this tailcoat really had something. The great detective's whole appearance from his strange green piercing eyes, the marked cheekbones and the dark curls over the outdated but still massively fashionable looking suit down to his shiny black leather shoes stood out from the masses although everyone else was also wearing evening dress.

John couldn't really explain where the effect came from. Sherlock was always Sherlock but when Sherlock wanted to go unnoticed and become part of the mass, he could vanish in a crowd without any difficulties. Tonight there was no need to keep a low profile. This was Sherlock's crowd and so he showed his whole gleaming personality.

John couldn't help but feel stupid, ugly and uninteresting for a moment and was considering wandering off to the toilets and leaving Sherlock alone, when his friend – who had started talking to an elderly couple - turned around and waved him over.

"Come on John! I want to introduce you to Ella and Gerald McDonald. They come here every single weekend and have seen all of the premiers in the last decade."

John shook hands with the woman first. She was tiny and old. Her skin was wrinkly but her eyes were bright and awake and looked almost double their real size behind the thick glasses she was wearing. She had white curls and was wearing a pink skirt and a white blouse as well as a very expensive looking gold necklace with a gem.

"Hello dear", she said, betraying her Scottish heritage with the second syllable already. "So you are Doctor John Watson, aren't you? The boy who moved into 221B and writes about all of Mr Holmes' adventures on the internet? My nephew sometimes reads the stories to me when he is around. He knows I like to hear about what Mr Holmes is doing but I can't get a grip on how to work the bloody computer. I did a course a couple of years ago but the progress of the technique these days is much too fast for me to keep up with it."

John confirmed she was quite right about him writing the blog.

"He's as good a blogger as there could be", added Sherlock and elbowed him slightly. "He's doing a brilliant job. I was not happy with the way he related the cases at first but I think he has a very popular and easy-to-understand approach. And he is a good assistant too."

He held up his hands.

"I've got to admit it: I'd be lost without him. Without him and Mrs Hudson that is... she's..."

"... the old landlady. I remember her from the time I came round to ask for your help with this", she pointed at her necklace. So they were not only casual acquaintances but also former clients. That explained a lot.

The old man was not as talkative as his wife. He was a sturdy, big fellow with reddish skin and a double chin. John noticed the smell of tobacco when Gerald headed off to get himself some champagne and orange juice for his wife and the two men.

Ella smiled and looked from Sherlock to John as if she was content with what she was seeing.

"I am so happy you have found a friend", she told Sherlock. John almost winced. Now even little tiny grandmothers already saw them as a couple. This was a lot not good.

Gerald came back with his orange juice and Sherlock excused him and John before they headed on.

"She's nice", said John.

"She's not only nice, she's one of the brightest girls on earth."  
Sherlock sipped his orange juice and let his eyes wander through the crowd. He was probably scanning every single person in the room finding out about their drinking habits, hobbies, pets and financial circumstances by just a single observant glance.

"She's incredibly witty and she almost solved that case she was referring to on her own. She only needed my help to literally catch the bastard who stole the necklace. I quote 'I am not as fast as I used to be and I might not be as strong either and I am not sure whether I could still lift the spade my husband keeps in our shed and hit the fellow on the head with it'."

John grinned.

"Sounds like your type."

"I'd marry her if she was not already taken and older than my mother", grinned Sherlock looked at his glass with a sceptical eye and left it standing on one of the tables.

"Really should not hire people who are too stupid to clean dishes", he murmured. "There was lipstick left on... oh."

He stopped mid-stride, turned on the spot and headed back to the table, grabbing the glass before one of the waitresses could, did not apologize for almost having her fall over and came back to where John was still standing and watching.

"What do you see?"

John took the glass and gave his to Sherlock in return who looked at it for a second and then emptied it with one draught.

"Hey, that was mine!"

Sherlocks mouth twisted.

"I'm gonna get you another one."

"But why did you have to drink mine in the first place. You could have gotten yourself another one."

"Inconvenient. Carrying two glasses around instead of one."

John stared at the glass in his hand and still was doing so when Sherlock came back with a fresh one.

"There are lipstick stains on the glass. A woman, because the lips are very full not because it's lipstick because there are enough men wearing lipstick today. Held the glass only at the stem, the proper way, so she's sophisticated. Thinking about the fact we're in the opera that's pretty much every single woman around here. Very dark colour. Not everybody can wear that. Can't see anything else."

Sherlock smiled, took the glass away and handed John the fresh one.

"Not bad, John. There's one conclusion you have not come to, but you are getting better. Definitely."

The bell rang to summon the audience back into the hall.

"Ready for some more gipsy romance?", asked Sherlock when John had finished his orange juice and the bell had rung the second time.

"I guess so."

They went back to their places.

Sherlock stretched his legs out.

John could not help but hear his voice echo in his head again and again. "He's doing a good job"... "I'd be lost without him."

How often did Sherlock admit to be dependent on anyone? Ella really had to be some special woman to make him admit he needed him and Mrs Hudson. And he had not even hesitated to say this in front of John. John remembered how much of a problem it had been for the detective to tell him he was his friend. Sherlock had changed... gradually but steadily he was becoming more and more human. John just hoped this development would not backfire someday. Because human beings were vulnerable. Although friends were there to protect you, having friends also meant you had a weak spot.

Sherlock's hand brushed at his arm.

"Is everything all right with you, John?"

John stared at him in bewilderment. Never before had Sherlock so obviously cared about anyone.  
"Yeah... er... yes... I am fine. Absolutely. Why are you asking?"

The detective shrugged.

"I don't know, I just thought you looked a bit... not all right."

"I am perfectly okay", assured John. "I was just... thinking."

Sherlock frowned but did not say anything else. The music announced the second part and both of them were pulled into the story again.


	13. Up the Dosage

Later this evening would stand out in Sherlock's memory as the last light before the darkness fell. After the last curtain fell, the detective and the doctor went to meet the woman from the management who did not have any clue about anything concerning her boss. A week later it had been clear that they would be able to prove Wool had been blackmailed but not that he had been the murderer although Sherlock's gut told him he was right and there had to be something. Of course it could not be Wool behind all this. Wool did not have the brain to delete all the traces that might lead to him being a murderer (or at least had been the one hiring an assassin to kill Amanda). And other cases popped up, difficult cases. Someone was playing the game again and Sherlock knew exactly who that someone was. And then, finally, they had met again. Jim had wanted them to meet and so they met, Jim had wanted to break him and it had been close. But Jim had considered all the elements except for one single small element. Sherlock had overlooked Molly for much of his pre-John life but he had come to see her and care for her lately in a way that she did not suspect. He knew she was fond of him, was still fond of him though she still dated that Sean guy from IT. She was used to being ignored. She even said she didn't matter. But she mattered. She mattered a whole lot just because Moriarty thought she was not important. She had been his life-rope, his helping hand, his saviour.

She had been the one trump on the side of the angels that the devil had never expected.

She didn't know where he was now. He had told her not to go looking for him. She sometimes brought him food and a newspaper to a secret place he had shown her. But she did not know where his hiding place was. Perhaps she thought he was living in one of the old underground stations that no-one used any more. London's underground was a vast maze and there was probably only one person alive who knew all the secret tunnels and passages... one person who was considered to be dead and who needed to pretend to be dead until it was all sorted out. Moriarty had had helpers, strong, clever helpers not just some hired dumbasses. The research on these people covered a whole wall in his posh flat now. The place was not to his taste at all. The kitchen was all chrome and stainless steel which was good if you used your kitchen as a laboratory but which made it much less comfy than the kitchen in 221B. The living room had four large windows through which you could see the whole city. The walls, shelves and carpet were white. The couch – a horribly dull and uncomfortable leather-monster – and the armchair – equally uncomfortable – were black.

It looked like a flat in one of these "home and house" magazines. Very modern, very posh, very boring. Sherlock hated it. He hated the huge bedroom, he hated the huge living room, he hated the modern shower, he hated it. But most of all he hated that he had not gotten hold of one Sebastian Moran although he had tried to hunt him down for more than a month. The one thing he even hated more than that was the one thing he kept himself from thinking about. And if he could not focus on Moran any more, if even the strongest coffee could not keep sleep at bay and the pictures came creeping up in front of his inner eye, he tried to push them back with all he had in store.

He was wondering around the flat, up and down in front of the wall with Moriarty's army. He had killed two of the guys. Eliminated that was. One had been run over by a bus the other one had committed suicide. CCTV would not be able to produce evidence to the contrary.

He got his cigarettes out of his nightgown and lighted one, inhaling deeply. He had started smoking again. Without anyone around to hide his fags... he pushed the thought back again. He stared at the lines and photos, the newspaper-articles. Nothing. Nothing! Then, suddenly, he jumped, got Moran's graduation picture from the wall and ran to his computer.

Scanning it took too long. He had already finished his cigarette.

Finally he saw the picture on the screen. Zoom in, refocus, clear it up. A curse escaped his lips. So this was it. This was the whole story. It had been there in front of him all along and he had overlooked it. Simply overlooked it!

He really was not at his best these days. He got out another cigarette and heard a voice in his head telling him he was ruining his health and would probably die of lung cancer. Familiar voice. Familiar voice he did not want to hear. Best do what the voice said to have it shut up.

He put the cigarette down and opened one of the drawers of the (white!) writing desk. There was a pile of nicotine patches in it next to a bottle with colourless liquid and a couple of hypodermic syringes.

He went for the patches as he always had done during the last month. He had bought the morphine and the syringes though. It had been a weak moment, a very weak one indeed. He had stayed away from any opiate derivates for a long time now. But he knew if he started it would be hell again. He could not afford hell. He needed to get hold of Sebastian Moran alias Sean from IT and then go back to John.

There it was. The name. He had avoided saying and thinking the name of his friend for such a long time that it made him shiver now. He had seen John crying at his grave, he had seen how shattered this man had been. And it was all his fault. The limp had reappeared. Psychosomatic limp.

He had never cared much about the feelings of others. But John was different. He missed him every day, every hour, every minute, every second. The doctor's sarcastic remarks and how he had put up with his moods. He missed him so much. And he had done the worst thing one friend can do to another. He had done it to protect him but he knew it had still been wrong. Wrong for John, wrong for him. It was really about time to end this game and get back before... he quickly closed the drawer to get the syringes out of his sight. Then he pulled off the paper from the four nicotine patches he had taken out and one after the other put them on his right arm.

The stuff was strong. But nowadays he did not feel anything after the first two, only a slight sensation after the third – which a long time ago had been enough to solve the most difficult problems – and a bit more after the fourth. He would need to up the dosage and go for five the next time.

He got Irene's mobile out of another drawer and dialled Molly's number, covering the microphone with two fingers. He needed to know where she was and whether Sean/Sebastian was with her.


	14. Caller Unknown

Knowing had been hard. Knowing and not being able to tell anyone that was. Molly had bumped into John quite a few times after Sherlock's "death" and she had tried to comfort him as best as she could. But she had felt horrible doing it, because she had known and still knew that Sherlock was alive. John was suffering. Suffering more, than anyone she had ever met before. And she had met a lot of families and relations that had cried and shouted and shaken their heads over dead bodies in the morgue.

John did not cry, he did not shout, he did not shake his head. He had done so right after it had happened but had very soon assumed a trance-like melancholy state. He did not cry in agony, he lived his life. He worked in a small clinic. He was patient and nice to the people who came to him about their illnesses. But inside, he was bleeding.

She had not seen him smile ever since. He had never been far from a laugh or a curse before, now he neither yelled at people and objects (not even the snack machine in Scotland Yard although it hardly ever worked) nor did he ever smile. He was walking with a cane again, his limp stronger than before he had met the detective.

Molly saw it all. She had not told Sherlock. She had asked him when he would reappear though. He had not specified. Sometimes she wondered what he would do if she recorded John in an everyday situation with her mobile and then showed the video to him. The old Sherlock, pre-John-Sherlock, would not have cared and would have carried on as usual. But he had changed since the doctor had stepped into his life and she was pretty sure he would feel guilty although she could not imagine his actions. He was already quite close to the edge. She did not want to offer him the last excuse to resume his old habits, habits that had left marks, marks that had been hidden but were now resurfacing. Now that he did not have anyone to keep his mind away from stuff. No John, no Lestrade, no Mrs Hudson.

She had been reluctant to leave him in this state but she had not been able to come up with a decent excuse for Sean why she could not go on holiday with him. So now here she was lying in the sun on a beach in Italy pretending to read a book while her thoughts were racing back to England, back to London, back to wherever he was, hoping he was not doing anything really stupid right now.

Her phone in her bag vibrated and she pulled it out. She expected a call from Sean. He had gone to a volleyball match with some mates he had met on their first evening in the hotel-lounge. He was such a sociable person. Always everyone's darling, never awkward, always pleasing. Sometimes she wished she could find a fault in his character, just one little flaw that proved he was human.

Caller unknown.

She knew immediately and her heart beat faster. She pressed the green button and lifted the phone to her ear.

"Yes?"

"Molly? Is that you?"

His voice was so familiar although slightly muffled by the bad coverage.

"Yes it's me."

"Where's Sean?"

"He... he's playing volleyball with some mates. You sound upset. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I was just... thinking. I might send you something. It's just a small something but I thought you'd like it and it might be quite useful at the beach so..."

Her heart rate doubled. He had thought of her! He had bought her a present!

"Oh, you need the hotel address?"

"Yes. Yes that would be lovely."

She gave him the street name and house number. He still seemed quite tense when he repeated it to make sure he had understood everything through the atmospheric noise of the bad connection.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes. It's all fine."

All her alarm bells went off at once. This was a John-sentence. Something he had picked up from his best friend without even noticing. He never used it these days. Had not used it once since the day on the roof.

"Sh...", she stopped, she had promised him never to say his name if he should ever call her. She gulped.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

"I never do anything stupid, Molly. A brilliant mind like mine is not specified for stupidity, you know."  
"With stupid I mean: Risky, dangerous or health-wrecking, especially not the latter as I know the first two are unavoidably attached to your life."

"Okay, fine. I promise you I won't touch the morphine."

She almost dropped the phone.

"You bought some?"

"I have some. For research purposes only though."

"I knew I should not have left..."

"I am not going to use it. Cross my heart. Okay?"

"Promise?"  
"Promise."

"Swear it."

"I swear I won't..."

"Swear it by the life of John Watson."

He hesitated. Then he sighed.

"I swear by the life of John Watson I will honestly try not to use the morphine."

"That's not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. But it's all I can give you for the moment."

He hung up without saying good bye and left Molly staring at her phone. She needed to get back to London. She would find a way.


	15. Before You Fall To Pieces

Nothing. Nothing. There was nothing left. It had been so long…

„Next patient, please."

An old lady, one of Mrs Hudson's friends. She had issues with her back. Old women tended to be a bit fragile. He did his bit and then sent her to see an orthopedic to get her bone-density checked. Osteoporosis was nothing unusual if you were more than 70 years old. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall. He looked tired and old, way older than someone in his late thirties should look. He had not slept properly. He didn't remember whether he had ever slept properly, without waking up in the middle of the night listening for the sound of a violin, the smell of some chemical burning, the noise of someone pacing up and down the living room, the scent of tobacco when that someone had once more found the place where John had hidden his fags.

He had contemplated leaving Baker Street and taking lodgings somewhere else. When he had told Mrs Hudson she had not wanted to hear it although she knew damn well he could not afford the rent. She had lowered the rent to half the original amount just to keep him close. She had not said much but John knew she was afraid he would do something stupid if he was on his own.

He might have done.

There was nothing left of him.

He had seen Molly a couple of times since it had happened. She had wanted him to talk, everyone wanted him to talk. His therapist had tried the same but he was unable to say half of what he felt. He needed his cane again. His leg had started throbbing once more. Molly had watched him walk into the café where they had decided to meet up and her face had been full of empathy. But she was the brave one. She worked. She had a relationship with that Sean guy from IT. She was on holiday with that guy right now as far as he knew. Her life had not stopped dead…

John's life had. The John that worked in the clinic, the John that ate the food Mrs Hudson made him eat (he forgot to eat if she did not remind him and had already lost ten pounds since…), the John that talked to patients and diagnosed them and wrote prescriptions and walked and breathed, that John was just an echo. There was nothing left. Nothing.

Every single night he saw him again in his dreams. Every single night he saw the corpse on the pavement and heard the words he had said before his fall. "This is my note…"

"John?"

He looked up. Kitty, the nurse had come in. She was a cute little thing with black braids and an open smile. Back in the days he might have fancied her. Back in the days when his heart had not been a painful knot in his chest, he might have asked her out for dinner.

"Aye?"

"We're done for today. That was the last patient. You can go home now."

She hesitated.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"And sad."

She waited for a reply but when none came, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

"It's still because of him, isn't it?"

John shrugged. Another person who wanted him to talk. Why did nobody understand that he could not speak about it, that every syllable hurt?

She nodded.

"He was your best friend."

John looked up. Nobody ever said that. He had said it once or twice when forced. His best friend. His only friend. But nobody else had said it. And now this strange girl who had not even known Sherlock seemed to understand.

He noticed his hands were trembling when he reached for his jacket.

Kitty walked over and let her fingers rest on his. She did not ask him for anything, not for emotions he could not show any more, she had not come here to ask him out. She was just there because she had seen he needed someone. For a few minutes he let down the façade he had built to keep going and broke down in her arms, sobbing like a baby. She was shorter than him, tiny, almost like a child. But she was strong enough to hold him for a while.

When he finally pulled away, a bit ashamed, a bit embarrassed, an apology already on his lips, she shook her head.

"It's all right, John. Go home now. Sleep. Try to sleep, you really look like you have not slept for a week. And… if it gets too much, just… just call me, will you. Before you fall to pieces."

He nodded.

"Thanks."

She shrugged, smiled and left without another word.

A bit later he was walking down the familiar pavement of Baker Street. A drizzly annoying rain was creeping through his jacket and made him shiver. His phone started ringing. One look at the display. Molly. He pressed the red button. He could not stand talking to Molly now. He frowned. Molly was supposed to be at the beach somewhere… she was not supposed to call him from a London landline but the number on the display had indicated exactly that.

Before he could dial her number to find out what had happened, the phone rang again announcing a text message.

John. Need you immediately. The Morgue. As fast as you can. Life or death. I am not kidding. Molly.


	16. Milk

Mrs Hudson was in a hurry. She had not thought about the grocery shopping for a while. She did not need much food and John did need even less since Sherlock had gone away. With a sad smile she remembered how the detective had always teased his friend with the fact that the doctor liked to have regular meals. Sherlock sometimes didn't eat for days. She had always found it remarkable how his body did not seem to rebel against the way he treated it. Apart from that one very bad time at the hospital… but that had been a long time ago and had been due to something else than systematic starvation.

She had wanted to make scrambled eggs for breakfast and had found there were none left. There was no butter or jam either. The fridge was empty except for a few sad leftovers (which would have been the delight of Sherlock Holmes as there was fluffy green stuff growing on them) and milk. There was always milk. John did not touch the milk any more. He had been constantly ranting about there being no milk and Sherlock never buying any… and now he did not even put it in his tea any more.

Mrs Hudson was worried about her boy. She had hoped he would get better after a couple of weeks but he had not. He was calm, he worked, he was polite enough, but he did not really live. He ate, when she told him. He went to bed, when she told him. After she had once come into his room to ask him whether she could do anything for him, after he had been screaming in his sleep, she had never done it again. He simply denied there was anything wrong with him.

While she pushed the cart through the aisles at Sainsbury's she wondered what she could possibly do to help him. What could anyone do to help him? Sherlock and John had been good for each other. John had been the consciousness and the social mind of the brilliant detective and Sherlock had brought excitement and adventure into John's life. That was, what everyone saw. But Mrs Hudson had seen more than that. John had been the first person Sherlock had ever really cared for without any selfish reasons. And John had let him in, had opened up to his strange and sometimes peculiarly ignorant and annoying flatmate. They had trusted each other completely. She had never seen Sherlock trust anyone before.

Just when she was heading for the checkout, it happened. Someone grabbed her from behind, pressing his hand on her mouth.

"Don't scream", said a calm voice next to her ear.

She knew that guy. She had seen him before. No. No, she had not. She had not seen him before. She had seen someone who had had the same eyes, but apart from that they looked very different. A name popped into her mind. Moriarty. Another Moriarty. She smelled a whiff of chloroform when he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. The next moment, she was unconscious.


	17. Improvise

"John!", Molly's face was ashen when she opened the door of the Mortuary to let him in. "I am so glad you made it!", she hugged him quickly. Something flickered in her eyes. She was afraid. But there was more. Guilt? Shame? Embarrassment?

"I… I need to tell you something. I did not want to do it like this, but I fear there's no time to do it subtly."

John nodded.

"Tell me…"

"So… you know Sebastian, don't you?"

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, sort of. The thing is, I… I have found out a few things and I… John he's alive. He's been trying to hunt down the people who belonged to Moriarty. And… I believe Sebastian is one of them. I did not realise for a long time. I did not come here because of that, I came here because I am worried what Sherlock might be doing. He's not to be left alone, you know. He was okay alone before… things changed. He changed. And he changed a lot because of you. I don't… JOHN!"

John's head was spinning and he felt like the floor was shifting underneath his feet. Molly grabbed his arm and sat him down on one of the tables.

"I am so sorry", she said, fumbling out some chocolate from her coat pockets and handing it to him. "Eat this, it's gonna get better. I did not want to tell you. I had to swear I wouldn't do it. But I fear, I have waited too long and now… I don't know where he is. He contacts me when he needs anything. He called. He called me while I was at the beach. You know. Didn't text. Called. And he was asking bout Sebastian and I didn't get it. I only understood when I was packing to fly over and found… I found a notebook. And there were notes about Moriarty's trial and Sherlock and things and… and there was another name."

John looked up. He still felt strange. He knew that he had to be in some state of shock. One part of his brain was working on the information Molly was giving him. The other part – the emotional part that had been causing him to scream at night and to live like a ghost during the last months – had shut down completely and was not letting anything in. It would in time. But this time had not come. John knew, when it happened, it would be bad. He was a doctor. He was supposed to know things like that.

"Another name?"

"Moriarty."

"Mortiarty is dead."

She looked at her hands.

"He had a brother. I have a bad feeling. I believe Sherlock is on his way to confront Sebastian. But I think he either does not know about James Moriarty or has forgotten about him. He's in London. I could gather that much from what I found in Sebastian's flat. He's in London and he's been keeping track of you and Mrs Hudson in case either of you received a message from Sherlock. They did not think of me, of course. I am not the one whom Sherlock would choose to be his contact in the living world, would I…"

She gulped. John took her hand.

"Where is he, Molly? And what has happened?"

She handed him her phone, an old battered mobile. A text was visible on the screen.

We know you know. Where is he? Exchange of information about whereabouts of SH against life of Mrs H. Embankment 3pm.

"I tried to call her at 221B. She's not home. John, I am really afraid what they might do to her."

John nodded grimly.

"What do you suggest we do?"

"We will do what Sherlock would have done if he was not busy killing your boyfriend", he said. "We will go to the Embankment."

"And then?"

"We will improvise and free Mrs Hudson."

It didn't sound like much of a plan. His brain still felt fuzzy. He locked the door to the compartment that dealt with feelings and threw the key away. He needed his wits about him. He would cope with the scale of the news he had heard later.


	18. Noble Stupidity

James Moriarty did not look much like his brother. They both had the same dark brown eyes, a feature that they inherited from their mother. James was much taller and broader than Jim. He had always been the one who preferred the open fight to the cunning ways of his brother. He had been the head of about fifty bank robberies and had worked as a hired killer for a while before he had joined his brother's team in the fight against Sherlock Holmes.

The final problem. Jim had believed it solved. But the detective had survived even though James did not have a clue how he had done it.

The old lady was shifting. Okay, so she would be awake, when the girl came to free her. She was so weak, a weak link, Molly Hooper. She was so weak, that nobody had seen what Sherlock had seen in her. Nobody except for James. He might not be as brainy as his brother had been but he was still more intelligent than most people.

He tried to call Sebastian. He had tried to do that quite a few times already but the guy did not answer his phone. Either he was smashed and was having a damn good time in Italy or something had happened. As "something" seemed to happen quite a lot to people who belonged to Jim's circle of criminals and as Molly Hooper had found her way back to London, it was pretty likely Sebastian would never pick up his phone again.

Two silhouettes appeared at the far end of the walkway. They drew nearer and James grinned triumphantly. She had brought the doctor. He would be able to finish them off together. How nice. John Watson looked older than his barely 40 years, worn out, torn, sad.

"Cruel, isn't it?", James greeted him when he was close enough to hear him. "He's kept you in the dark for months on end. Has made you believe he was dead. And all the while he has trusted this girl with the truth. I would be wondering if I were you, whether you are really his best friend."

He turned to Molly.

"He trusted you… and he still does… and you will give him away to save a life. Noble. Or stupid. Or both. I find that the two go quite well together sometimes. Noble stupidity. Stupid nobility. It's all the same old story."

John leapt forward but James was already pointing a pistol at his head. Three more pistols were drawn by his hands who were standing around Mrs Hudson. The hands were idiots, hired, broad-backed idiots who blindly followed his orders. They didn't know much about the game. They didn't know much about anything. But they were helpful.

"Get me their mobile phones!", he ordered. One of the big men went over and searched both Molly and John until he had retrieved their phones.

"Give them to me."

James was circling the two like a cat. Mrs Hudson was making a noise somewhere between a sob and a sigh behind him. He saw John mouth "It's all right" in her direction. Oh, how wrong that man was.

"My brother's dead", he said calmly. "He's dead because of one man. And that man still lives. I want to finish what Jim started. I want to solve the problem. I want to see Sherlock Holmes dead. But I will make him die in a way that nobody will be able to trace back to me."

He grinned.

"I've done my research. The guy's a wreck. He's been doing drugs of all kinds. Claims to be clean now, I know. No record of anything for a while that would hint at him falling back into old habits. But what would happen, I wonder… what would happen if he was left alone, without any of you", he pointed the gun at John's head, then at Mrs Hudson, then at Molly, "to tell him off? Without any of you to take care of him? He's a genius. The old problem with all the geniuses is: They're all mad. They can't survive on their own without normal people, boring people, stupid people looking after them. My brother could not. Sherlock Holmes will not. Your death will be his downfall. And I will relish his end."

He smiled even wider.

"Hit them!", he told his hired arms and the guys followed suit. Molly ended up with a bruised lip, John – who had tried to defend himself – with a cut on his eyebrow and at least one broken rib. The doctor doubled over after a kick in the stomach and had to watch how Mrs Hudson received a head-blow that almost sent her back into unconsciousness again. James made the men tie the hands of his victims and throw Molly and John down next to the old lady. Then he snatched a picture with Molly's phone and scrolled through the "latest calls" list.

"I guess it's the unknown one, the one that you have not saved in your telephone book but that you still talked to for about 15 minutes?"

He pressed the "send" button.

"What do you think he will do now? An MMS with his best friend, landlady and…", he hesitated, looking at Molly, "… favourite toy beaten up and bruised. He will want to rescue you, don't you think? He will need information on where we are though."

He typed in "Thames Embankment" and sent the text off to the same number. If his calculations were right, Sherlock Holmes must have arrived back in London about a quarter of an hour ago. It was quite a journey from Heathrow to the city. He would be shouting at the taxi driver to hurry up. He would go frantic at every red light and start yelling when they got stuck in a traffic jam. James liked to imagine all of this. It was so delightful to have one's enemy cornered.

"So… what am I going to do with you now?", he asked circling them again. "I have an idea."

He pushed them towards a wall and had them stand with their hands above their heads.

One gunman in front of every prisoner. He knew his game.

He got John's phone out, typed in the number and pressed the "video conference" button.

"Moriarty!", the voice of the detective was calmer than he had expected. "You are not going to win this."

"You are on the side of the angels", answered James. "And that side always loses."

"Are you quite sure? Turn around."

James turned. And there he was. Standing at the top of the walkway, tall, clad in the same black coat as always. Oh he liked big appearances this one. And James liked this game. He grinned at the phone.

"Watch closely."

And with a smile he nodded at the three gunmen. Three shots rang through the air. Three bodies tumbled to the ground. The figure on top of the hill started running. Moriarty signalled for his gunmen to take the corpses away. He was winning.


	19. Escape

Sherlock had not come back to his Hotel Room. It was still too white and too clean for him, too tidy, too modern. Not his home. He had instead gone back to 221B, had broken into the old wooden door and walked up the stairs to sit in his chair in the study. This was supposed to be home. But what was left of it except for an empty flat full of memories?

He had been too late. Moriarty was dead. He did not regret that bit. But his bulls had taken away the bodies. He did not know where to. But there had been blood on the ground. So much blood. And there had been the video. Moriarty had filmed it all. There was no way around it. Three straight head-shots. It was clear as day. One small detail had slipped his grasp and now everything had been in vain. His hiding, his staying away from John and Mrs Hudson… they were dead. Dead, dead, dead.

The word hung in his head. It had been echoing in his thoughts for the last hours, whilst he had tried to trace the gunmen (who had vanished into thin air), whilst he had tried to tell himself there must be a trick to it, whilst he had come to the conclusion that there could be no trick after watching the video ten times in a row, whilst he had gone down to the places most Londoners never entered and bought what he needed to get rid of the pictures in his head, to get rid of the memories and the pain.

The candle flickered a bit whilst he waited for the stuff in the reagent tube to melt. It was finely ground. Not the usual stuff which was 80% crap and 20% substance. This was pure, like 90% stuff. They called it Golden H. The best you could get. The worst you could get. He knew it might kill him. It was so much stronger than normal H. And he had not even consumed any H or morphine for the last few years.

His hand was steady when he tipped the reagent tube and let the liquid run into a syringe. It had a slight golden shimmer to it in the evening light.

He pulled back his shirtsleeve. He needed to open and close his hand a couple of times before he could see the vein through the alabaster skin. He checked the syringe for air-bubbles then pushed the needle in. He pulled back the plumber and watched his red blood mix with the colourless stuff. It formed clouds of red which quickly dissolved. He took a deep breath. Now, push and take it home! Make it all go away for a while, make it stop hurting!

He thought of the way John had always reacted to his smoking, thought of how Molly had constantly kept him away from the morphine, how Lestrade had found him back in the days in that one night when his life had been almost over. The inspector never talked about it, never talked about the weeks afterwards when he had come to visit on a daily basis into that hospital room that stank of vomit and of a person sweating out the poison. Neither Lestrade nor Mrs Hudson nor Mycroft ever mentioned it although all three of them had been there.

He had kept that part of his history a secret. Since Lestrade had raided his flat in the drugs bust, the doctor had a faint idea that he was not a stranger to things stronger than tobacco… but John did not know how deep down he had been once. He had never told him, because he feared if his friend realised how crippled and insane he really was, he would walk out of the flat immediately never to return again.

John. He had tried not to think about his friend. He had tried not to realise what had happened. It hurt so much. He had not expected it to hurt so much. John. Molly must have told him. How had he reacted? Would he have hated him for what he had done to protect him from harm? He just wished he had had the chance to talk to him once more. Just once. Just for a couple of minutes. He had never had any friends, had not cared to make friends. He had not cared to become John's friend either. It had just happened. So much had happened. John was not only a friend. He was much more than that. The first person who had really mattered. The only person who would ever matter that much. And he had not even told him. And now it was over. And it hurt. Moriarty had won. The enemy was dead but he had won the game. Back in the days Sherlock Holmes might have walked away from this encounter unscathed, but he had changed. He had started to care, he had started to love although he had known it was dangerous to open up to people, to let them in, to feel anything for them.

John. John. John.

His hand trembled on the syringe. He could not cope. He wanted to escape. He needed to escape. His grip fastened, ready to push the liquid into his veins.


	20. Through Hell And Back

John was running. He was running again, without the cane, without thinking. The underground train had been incredibly slow and now he was trying to make up for that. Molly had given him the address and then headed to the hospital with Mrs Hudson who was still a bit shaky.

They had all three woken up thinking they were dead. But you could do incredible tricks with guns and camera angles. The shot he had received had cut off part of his ear and the wound was still bleeding like hell although he had tried to stop the blood flow. Molly had been worse off and would not be able to do anything with her left shoulder and arm for a while. Mrs Hudson had taken a bullet across her head and was already complaining about her hairline being destroyed. Moriarty had never wanted to kill them. He had only wanted to make Sherlock believe he had done it. But why not kill them? It did not make any difference in the outcome, did it?

He did not understand. He did not care to understand. The gunmen had left them behind and had run off as soon as they knew their boss was dead. Perhaps he could still do something. If he only ran fast enough he would be able to change destiny. If he was right. If Sherlock was sentimental enough to go back to the place where it had all begun. John cursed himself. He was a fool. Sherlock's level of sentimentality was nearly zero. There was no way he could be right, but if…

He pulled out the keys when he turned into Baker Street, but when he reached for the lock, he saw the door was already open. He had been right after all!

He ran in and up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. What would he find up there? Would he be too late?

The door flew open.

"Sherlock!", he screamed when he saw his friend sitting in his favourite chair, knees pulled against his chest, shirtsleeve pushed back and needle in his arm. The detective had his eyes closed but one glance assured John he had not taken the final step yet. He leapt forward and ripped the needle out of his friends arm howling it across the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at him.

"That was quick", he said astonished looking around. "A bit disappointing but I find it quite comfortable."

John could not help it. The walls were falling quickly, everything he had kept back, wanted out. He slapped his friend across the face.

"You are not dead!", he exclaimed, and hit him again. "You are not dead! You are such an idiot! You're not dead!"

Sherlock looked at his arm, where a small stream of blood was trickling down, then at the needle in the corner. The syringe was still full. He looked back at John.

"You… I… I saw them shoot you."

John stood back crossing his arms.

"Don't believe everything you see. I saw you jump off a roof, remember?"

His voice trembled. Anger, relief, the emotions washed over him like waves.

"I… I watched the video. They… you… Molly… Mrs Hudson."

"They're alive. I am alive. And you are alive… although that", John pointed at the syringe, "really qualifies as terminally stupid and I should really slap you again for that."

He swayed for a second. His brain couldn't cope. His body couldn't either. He had not eaten for a while – except for that piece of chocolate Molly had forced on him. He staggered to his seat and sat down before his legs gave way. He covered his face with his hands and tried to breathe regularly.

He heard Sherlock stand up and walk over but did not lift his head. He knew he had tears in his eyes and he was too embarrassed to show his relief. He had been in time. It had been close, but he had been in time.

Sherlock took his hands and pulled them down, then pulled the doctor out of his seat and into a hug. John noticed a wet shine in his friend's eyes but he could not be sure. Sherlock Holmes showing emotions to that extend… it was very unlikely.

For a while they just stood there chest to chest, John's tears soaking Sherlock's shirt. Both happy to feel the other, to know they were there, they were alive and they were back together. Finally, Sherlock pulled away, a half-smile on his face, and yes, tear-trails on his cheeks.

"I am sorry, John. I am so, so sorry. You… you must have been through hell and back."

John frowned.

"I am not that attached to you, you know. I can cope…", he started, trying to take the sting out of it, to make this whole thing less serious so it would be easier for Sherlock, as he had always done.

"John!", Sherlock shook his head. "I… I have lived in a horrible flat. It was white and clean and sterile. It was horrible. And it was empty. And I was alone and realised alone is not what I am any more. It used to be once, but things change. I have forced myself to stay away from you all this time. I did not know what you were going through. Molly did not say much, I think… she tried to spare me. To keep me safe. Because… if you only felt half of what I felt when I saw James having you shot a couple hours ago… I would have come back…"

John noticed they were still standing incredibly close to each other. The fabric of their shirts was still touching.

"It's been worse than hell", he said quietly. "I know you needed to do it to keep us safe but…"

He took a deep breath and smiled up to the detective.

"Promise me the next time we will face things like that together. I probably won't be able to go through this again and Mrs Hudson will throw me out of the house because I keep waking her up at night because I have nightmares and start screaming and my colleagues will have me lose my job because I can't really concentrate and care for anyone because my head is constantly full of you and…"

He trailed off when he felt Sherlock's hands on his again. For a few seconds their eyes met. A million thoughts at once crossed the space between them without having to be uttered loudly. Then, slowly, incredibly slowly, Sherlock pulled him closer again and, almost accidentally, brushed his lips over his forehead.

"I promise", he murmured. "What else can I do."

He pointed at his arm.

"I thought I needed to protect you. But… I guess I also need you around to keep me from harm."

This time it was a proper kiss. A small kiss, nothing special or greedy, just lips brushing against lips, resting there for a moment and vanishing again, but still a proper kiss. John sighed and let his fingers run through his friend's hair.

"I am glad I've got you back", he said.

"I am glad I've got you back, too", Sherlock replied.


	21. Epilogue

Molly would have hated anyone else who made Sherlock beam like this. Back in the days of Irene Adler… oh how she had hated that woman for crossing the gap so easily… she had had fantasies about cutting her face up and she had been very tempted to do things to her dead body (that Sherlock had identified from not her face) that would probably have cost her her job. But this was… all right she thought. She had waited for envy and jealousy to grab her heart. But she really only felt happy for these two. And now, she added in thoughts, no other girl would ever get him. Quite a relief. He had referred to her as his "best friend" when he had made her acquainted with his parents. Yes, he actually had parents, although she could understand why they had never made an appearance before.

His dad was a bull of a man, a straight-thinking guy with a barony and a shitload of money on his account. Someone who could not cope with his sons who were both strange and more intelligent than was good for them.

Sherlock's mum was lovely. She was tiny and sweet and had the same eyes as her son. But she was also very naïve and Molly was happy she did not read the papers or check the internet for news. The last weeks had been busy and Sherlock had solved about a dozen cases, some of them incredibly nasty. She had seen a couple of corpses she would rather not have seen. Why did serial killers tend to mutilate their victims? It was really disgusting.

"It's sweet, isn't it?", Mycroft had appeared next to her, champagne glass in one, a double choc muffin in the other hand. "It's so sweet, I can hardly cope with it. Is that really my brother?"

Molly smiled and watched Sherlock and John talking to John's sister Harriet who was clutching a glass of orange juice. Sherlock's hand rested absentmindedly on John's back. Both of the guys were radiating happiness like sunshine.

It had been a long way down the road to this. Molly would never have been able to predict this would happen and neither – so he said – had John. He had been completely surprised by the proposal but he had been smart enough to accept it.

She walked over to the small group and was welcomed by the guys who kissed her on the cheek.

"Glad you made it", said Sherlock beaming. "Wouldn't be a decent party without you."

She blushed slightly.

"So… have you already spotted any computer engineers or aspiring criminal masterminds that you could dance with tonight?", he asked.

She shook her head.

"I guess I am cured for all times."

"Would you mind dancing with a consulting detective later on?"

She grinned.

"I'd really enjoy that."

"No you won't", interrupted John who had taken Sherlock's hand. "He's a horrible dancer. He makes a complete fool of himself on the dance floor."

"Just because you never learnt the choreography to Michael Jackson's Thriller properly does not mean everyone else has to be as ignorant as you", replied Sherlock with a smile and kissed him on the forehead. "Guess we should get this party started."

Just in that moment the door was pushed open and inspector Lestrade came in.

"Oh no… not now", murmured John.

"Sherlock!", panted Lestrade as soon as he had reached them. "I need your help, there's been…"

"Anything that requires immediate action and can't wait til tomorrow morning?", enquired Sherlock.

"Well, we've got a murder…"

"Is it likely that the murderer is going to kill again in the next 12 hours?"

"Probably not, but…"

"Then, Greg, you are very welcome to stay here and enjoy the evening in the delightful company of Mrs Hudson and Molly or the less delightful company of my brother who might actually beat you in the record of most muffins eaten per time. Or you might go back to Scotland Yard and get a headache from coping with Anderson's non-existent intellect. In each case, I am going to stay here and celebrate my engagement now and drink too much wine, dance and get incredibly smashed. If you provide enough aspirin, I might join your team by lunchtime tomorrow but not a sole minute earlier."

Lestrade and John stared at him in amazement.

"What?", asked Sherlock turning to John. "Did you think I'd run off to some crime scene and leave you behind?"

"Actually… it's not too far-fetched, is it?"

Sherlock smiled.

"I am not nearly bored enough to even consider leaving this place. The murder can wait. I'll solve it tomorrow. Got better things to do right now."

He listened up. The DJ they had hired for the evening had changed the LP. Sherlock grinned when he recognized the tune.

"Oh, Adele - May I have this dance, Dr John Hamish Watson?"


End file.
